


Reconnaissance

by fengirl88



Series: Invasion [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warning: Implied Incest, Warning: Implied Past Sexual Abuse, Warning: Traumatic Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's point of view on the events following Invasion; <strong>please note the warnings for that (implied incest, implied past sexual abuse, traumatic memory)</strong>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt square "face: temple" on my kissbingo card. Many thanks to kalypso_v, ginbitch and blooms84 for reading and commenting.
> 
> I don't know whether what I've suggested about Sherlock's memory here is possible or probable; this is not something I know from my own experience and I'm more than usually conscious that I may have got it wrong.

Sherlock, John and Clara sit waiting for the concert to begin. They're in a church that's normally plagued by tourists on the trail of some cult novel or other, apparently. But this evening it's been given over to something different altogether: young singers, an established pianist, a significant anniversary celebrated with two song cycles. One of the local heads of Chambers, someone Clara knows, is backing the series, and as always with these things there's a little bustle of patrons, a stir of excitement that's not quite to do with the music.

Sherlock hadn't been going to come at all, and then at the last minute he'd changed his mind. Surprisingly – given the high quality of what's on offer – it's not that big an audience, so there wasn't a problem getting a ticket on the door. But he thinks maybe John's not pleased he decided to join them. When Sherlock had come back from getting his ticket and a couple of programmes, John and Clara were having a conversation they clearly didn't want to go on with in front of him. Normally he'd assume it must be something about Harry, but this time he's not so sure.

John's been ... _odd_ , the last few days, and it's making Sherlock feel distinctly uneasy. He's pretty sure it has something to do with that incident last week. There's a blank between the last thing he remembers – being in bed with John – and the next: coming round much later to find himself alone, muscles aching as if he'd been clenching all over for ages. John was on the phone downstairs and he'd almost jumped out of his skin when Sherlock had appeared in the doorway. He'd ended the call straight away, too, saying “I can't talk about it now. Goodbye” – which, for him, had been abrupt to the point of rudeness.

Sherlock worries about these details now. He never used to. But living with John has made him more aware of these shades, because everything about John is unexpectedly precious, even his ordinariness. And his behaviour since that thing Sherlock can't remember is not ordinary at all. He's acting like someone with a secret. A secret from _Sherlock_.

John wouldn't tell him what had actually happened, even when Sherlock asked him outright. All he said was _I think you had a sort of blackout_ , which wasn't very informative. Also, John usually makes what Sherlock thinks of as an unnecessary fuss about illness, so why isn't he telling Sherlock to see a GP, or taking his blood pressure or his temperature or something? Anyone would think he'd stopped caring.

Sherlock's not going to let himself think about that idea. He hadn't realized how much he'd got used to the constant sense of John's concern, his – yes, all right then – affection, _love_ probably isn't too strong a word.

He wonders who John was talking to on the phone that time. It didn't sound like the way he talks to Clara, certainly not Harry; more like the way he'd speak to a fellow professional but not one he knows well. Sherlock doesn't know why he thinks of Ella Thompson. He's never heard John speak to her, and he's long since stopped seeing her anyway, said he didn't need therapy any more, so there's no reason he'd be in touch with her unless –

Oh, he is _not_ going to start imagining that sort of thing.

But he _is_ going to have to insist John tells him what really happened, so that he doesn't go crazy speculating about it, worrying about it. Leaving someone in this uncertainty is cruel, and John is not cruel. He probably just doesn't realize what's happening, otherwise he'd do something to make it better, because that's what he does.

Sherlock's frightened that he might have ... hurt John in some way. Which would explain why John hasn't seemed to want sex with him since then. Has hardly touched him. He couldn't see any bruises when he'd barged into the bathroom yesterday while John was showering. But there could be injuries somewhere that doesn't show –

 _Stop it_ , he tells himself.

 

The concert's finally starting, and the young baritone is letting rip with a song about a stormy night. Sherlock doesn't know this cycle, but his German's more or less adequate for a game of follow-my-lieder. In his tense state, the pun nearly makes him giggle, which wouldn't be a good idea.

The title of the next song is off-puttingly melodramatic - “Die, Love and Joy!” But the song itself is calm and tender: the piano accompaniment sounds like a chorale, and the singer's line is smooth and sustained. It suits the sweetness of his voice better than the storm song, Sherlock thinks. There's a mystical vision in a church, and a girl who's decided to become a nun and renounce the world, bidding earthly joys farewell. As the young girl prays, the baritone suddenly goes into an eerie falsetto, ventriloquizing her voice. It doesn't really sound like a girl, of course, more like a young boy if anything; but it's odd and slightly unsettling just the same, hearing that other voice coming so unexpectedly from him –

Sherlock feels a sharp pain in his arm. He looks down and sees John's hand gripping it, so hard John's knuckles are white. He doesn't understand why it's happening.

But it means something to Clara, he can see that. She's got hold of John's other hand, and she's squeezing it, the way you might comfort someone waiting in a hospital corridor for bad news. He doesn't know why it makes him think of that.

His head's aching, badly, hadn't realized that, or maybe it's only just started. He suffers through the remaining songs in the first half of the programme, knowing he'd enjoy the concert at any other time. When the applause breaks out he makes a bolt for it, without a word to John or Clara. He runs through the narrow lane down to the Embankment and flags a taxi, jumps into it gasping the address and collapses against the window. As the cab pulls away he catches a glimpse of John shouting something after him, but he can't hear what it is.

Back at the flat he rushes up the stairs and grabs John's laptop, searching frantically for clues. John's changed the password again, but it's easy to crack, it's always too easy.

There _is_ a message from Ella Thompson, which is frankly alarming:

 _I can't advise you about this, John, you know it wouldn't be ethical. All I can do is suggest you get him to see someone, sooner rather than later_.

And one from _Mycroft_ , what the hell...?

 _Wednesday at 6. Please confirm. M_.

He scrolls down to read John's original message to Mycroft:

 _Need to see you urgently. Private matter. JW_

Sherlock feels cold all over, and his head is aching so much it feels as if it might split in two. He wonders where John's keeping his supply of painkillers.

Footsteps on the stairs; he goes to shut down the laptop but it's too late. John's already in the room. He doesn't look angry. He looks stricken, which is definitely worse.

Sherlock can't stop shaking. “Tell me what I've done,” he says. “ _Please_ , John. I know it must be something bad, but I can't remember.”

“What _you've_ done,” John says slowly. He sounds as if he can't believe he's hearing this. “Christ, Sherlock, is that what you've been thinking?”

“What else can it be?” Sherlock says desperately. “You've been – so strange, and I know something happened but you won't say what it was and – _shit_ , my head hurts!”

John comes over to where he's sitting, puts his arms around him and hugs him. Sherlock starts to shake even more. “I'll get you something for your head,” John says, and makes as if to move away, but Sherlock clings to him and won't let go.

“OK,” John says. “OK, I'm not moving. Oh God, Sherlock.”

He puts his lips against Sherlock's temple, where the headache is tight and banging. Sherlock whimpers, partly with the pain and partly in reaction to the kiss after days of almost no contact. John kisses his forehead, strokes it gently, touches his lips to the pulse at the other temple.

Sherlock's still trembling. He can't seem to breathe properly. He wants to ask John what all that was at the concert, what's going on with Clara, with Ella Thompson, with _Mycroft_ , but the words don't come. He goes on clinging to John as John kisses him, gentles him the way you'd calm an animal in the grip of panic. Which is close enough to what he is right now – part of him knows that, seems to be standing aside and observing the rest of him.

John keeps trying to say something and then stopping. Eventually he manages it: “Three things, Sherlock. One: you haven't done anything wrong. Got that?”

Sherlock nods, though he's not sure he believes it. The movement makes him wince.

“Two,” John says. “I love you. Don't nod your head again because that's obviously not a good idea, but squeeze my arm if you got that – OK, OK, that's hard enough. Shit. Three: whatever happens, I am not leaving you. So don't even _think_ about thinking that. OK?”

“OK,” Sherlock whispers.

John kisses the side of his head again, very gently.

“That's the easy bit,” he says. “Now comes the bit I have absolutely no idea how to deal with.”

Sherlock looks up at him; the headache's blurring his vision but he can still just make out the look of anxiety on John's face. What's coming must be bad, to make him look like that. He feels afraid again, but he holds on to John, the only sane thing left in a mad world, and waits to learn what this is all about.


End file.
